The wind pulls into his pristine apartment with a loneliness he can’t describe, mostly because the wind doesn’t have feelings. He would sympathize with that wind if he were an empathetic person. Living with this illness can be a sorry job, what with there being no cure and all. Well that, and it isn’t even supposed to exist.
He drums out a Wagnerian tune with his jaundiced but well-kept fingernails along the eggshell white windowsill.
There are certain secrets that are easy to hold, and they glow in your hands like blessings. Then there are the kind that tear at your innards like a cougar tucked into a Spartan boy’s jacket.
Or at least that’s how he thinks the story went. It’s been a long time since he’d been able to pull himself away from the windowsill long enough to read.
Somewhere, from a camera about as big as a pin-prick, WOTAH is watching him. Always have, always will. He came to peace with that a while ago.
But his daughter?
He frowns heavily as her image charges into his mind, unbidden. Sonia, bald as an eagle, thrusting a wad of papers into his hands and speaking so fast her words ran one into the other like school children at play. No, he had said. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.